


White Lines, Blue Hearts

by The_resolution_to_take_flight



Category: Uta no Prince-sama
Genre: Art Galleries, Flirting Level Max., M/M, Model!Camus, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poetry, Rare Pairings, Well... maybe for Camus, ceo!Masato
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 03:06:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11327409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_resolution_to_take_flight/pseuds/The_resolution_to_take_flight
Summary: "Camus stopped on a photo of his back. Kobayashi had zoomed in on the right, and on the flat surface of his shoulder blade, a poem was written in the most beautiful handwriting he had ever seen. Leaning forward, Camus re-read the poetry of that perfect stranger.It was then that he noticed the smaller writing of a phone number underneath."When Masato takes an unexpected turn in an art gallery, he meet Camus, a model in an interactive piece of modern art. The next logical step is writing your phone number on Camus' back... right?Based on a tumblr prompt.





	White Lines, Blue Hearts

     Hijirikawa Masato’s footsteps echoed along the marbled corridors of the art gallery. The floor gleamed beneath his feet and the regal paintings observed him as he strolled through the rooms. It was early morning, his favourite time of day to be here; a chance to clear his mind before a long day at the office. Usually, an elderly couple or two would pass as he meandered, but only the security guards greeted him this morning. He made his way through the classic art exhibition halls following the same path he always took, stopping nowhere in particular. He knew each piece from memory, and there was no need to linger.

     Before he realised, he had made his way back to the main entrance. Masato glanced at his watch. 07:35. It was another two hours until his first meeting. He frowned. _What to do…_ He considered going back through the gallery again, but dismissed the idea. The Turner’s and Rossetti’s would still be there tomorrow, and besides, he was in the mood for something else. Something new.

     Distant voices woke him from his thoughts, echoing down a marble corridor to his left. The modern exhibition halls. Normally, Masato steered clear, deciding after his first visit that once was enough. Classic art was far more to his taste. Today however, the voices had piqued his interest, and with slow steps, he entered the gallery.

     He rounded a corner to find two men. One was clearly a young artist, busily packing away his brushes and tools. A blue tarp, splattered with white paint, was messily rolled up under his arm, and he was talking to the other man.

     Masato’s breath caught in his throat. This second man was like none he’d ever seen, as though he had been torn from the page of a fantasy novel. Dressed in white, his long, pale hair draped gracefully over his shoulders. Eyes of ice, lips like rose petals, and an elegance that was inexplicable. His skin seemingly glowed under the gallery lights. There were strokes of white paint running from his elbows to his fingertips and a thick, painted line followed the curve of his chin to his breastbone, vanishing beneath his crisp blouse.

     Masato hastily snapped out of his reverie. The two men had noticed his presence now. Stifling embarrassment, Masato walked over to greet them.

     “Good morning, are you one of the artists for this gallery?”

     “Yes, this is my first exhibit here. Name’s Kobayashi Riku.”

     “Pleasure to meet you. Hijirikawa Masato.” He shook hands with the young artist. “And your colleague?”

     “Of course, this is Camus, my model.”

     Masato turned to Camus and bowed slightly. “Good morning,” he said, and their eyes locked.

     “Good morning,” Camus replied. His expression was cold, but his words were surprisingly warm, and a smile played at the corners of his lips. A blush crept into Masato’s cheeks, but if Camus noticed, he didn’t show it.

     Saving himself from getting flustered again, Masato turned back to Kobayashi. “You said Camus is your model. What is the exhibition about?”

     “It’s an interactive piece about anonymity. Camus has gladly agreed to stand here for the next 12 hours. In this time, visitors to the gallery are invited to write messages in black marker on his clothes and skin. It represents our ability to socialise with complete strangers but only…” Masato’s mind gradually tuned out what Kobayashi was saying. His eyes wandered back to Camus and the delicate brushstrokes adorning him, wondering what it would be like to trace his own calligraphy brush along Camus’ soft skin, or better yet, using his fingertips… Masato scolded himself and forced his attention back to the artist, still speaking.

     “…so the outcome is a meeting of humanity and high art to break down social barriers. In fact, would like to be the first to write something?” Kobayashi held out the black marker to Masato.

     He stared at it for a moment. “… I… Sure.”

     Taking the pen, he turned to Camus. “You don’t mind?”

     “Of course not. I’m paid to be here.” He gave a reassuring look.

     Masato swallowed. Stepping towards Camus, he uncapped the marker. It was a fine felt-tip, almost like a calligraphy pen, and he immediately felt more at ease, despite the fact he was standing a mere step away from this vision of purity. A poem he had been studying recently came to mind for a reason he couldn’t place. He decided to go for it, and moved around behind Camus to find a flat surface on his back. As he did, Camus whispered loud enough for only the two of them. “Besides, if it’s you that’s writing, I don’t mind at all.”

     Masato’s heart fluttered. _Was that my imagination? Did he… flirt with me?_ He took a deep breath, steadied his now shaking hand, and began to write his poem along Camus’ right shoulder blade. Done. Masato paused for a moment, and then despite all of his better judgement, added his phone number in small lettering beneath the poem. Before he could regret his decision, he capped the pen and gave it back to Kobayashi, who was finishing his preparations for the exhibition. He bid farewell to the artist, and then turned back to Camus, opening his mouth to speak. Words failed. He shut his mouth and simply bowed. Then, Masato left the gallery, his mind full of turbulent thoughts and his shoes still clicking on the marbled floor.

 

*

 

     Camus collapsed down into his armchair. He’d spent most of the past twelve hours on his feet, with only a short break every hour. Despite the physical demand, he’d had enjoyed the unique nature of the job. People all through the day had drifted in and out of the hall, appreciating his form, sometimes striking up conversation, but more often leaving their thoughts unspoken and tracing them onto his clothes or skin instead. It gave him an odd sense of fulfilment.

     Now, for a cup of tea.

     Camus stood and stretched his long arms towards the ceiling, cracking his neck to the side. With a sigh, he moved towards the kitchenette. He was tossing up between a cup of English Breakfast or Earl Grey, when his phone buzzed against his leg. He stopped and pulled it from his pocket. It was an email from Kobayashi, thanking him for his work, and checking that the photos he had taken were suitable for publishing. He’d have to run them past his agent in the morning, but he was curious to see how they had turned out, taking a seat and downloading the files.

     Kobayashi had done a fine job. Each shot was well lit and proportioned, capturing the contrast between the crisp, white linen and the scrawl of black characters. As he flicked through the shots, he read the anonymous thoughts of the people he’d met. Confessions, prayers, wishes, even a few words of adoration from fans. He would have to tell Kobayashi that the exhibition had made just as much of an impression on him as it had on others.

     Camus stopped on a photo of his back. Kobayashi had zoomed in on the right, and on the flat surface of his shoulder blade, a poem was written in the most beautiful handwriting he had ever seen:

 

The purity of the moonlight

Falling out of the immense sky

Is so great that it freezes

The water touched by its rays

 

     Camus stared, transfixed by the words in front of him. Somehow, he knew that they had been chosen for him with a great level of care. He closed his eyes, and the beautiful characters transformed into the scene they depicted.

     He stayed like that for a while, breathing softly, slowly. Eventually, he opened his eyes again and everything he saw was tinged with a deep blue, but not the hues he’d imagined. It was the hair and eyes of the young man he had met that morning in the gallery. He remembered the man’s porcelain skin and flushed cheeks, and his shoulder blade tingled at the memory of his touch. There was something intriguing about him, a raw passion beneath the deep, sapphire waters of his eyes. A passion Camus recognised in himself. Perhaps a few years ago, they could have been friends? Perhaps they might meet again? Camus leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. It was too unlikely in such a big city, and he had given up on fate years ago, but something not unlike regret tugged at his soul. Still, it was pointless to dream about changing his past. _Keep moving forward_.

     Camus opened his eyes again. The room seemed dimmer now, and the glare of his phone was harsh. Leaning forward, Camus re-read the poetry of that perfect stranger.

     It was then that he noticed the smaller writing of a phone number underneath.

     He blinked. Surely it was a joke? _Someone must have put it there afterwards as a gag…_ He zoomed in and analysed the writing. His jaw hung ajar. The handwriting unmistakably matched the poem.

     Camus locked his phone, slammed it down on the table, and stormed to his bedroom, his head reeling. There he was, dreaming to meet the stranger again and the means was staring him in the face.

     So why was he afraid?

 

*

 

     “And that concludes this morning’s meeting. You’ve all been assigned your tasks, and we’ll debrief tomorrow afternoon. Do your best.” Masato closed the folder in front of him and dismissed his employees. He slowly gathered his things, observing the behaviour of his staff as they did the same. Pleasingly, they seemed to be content, no frustration or resentment hidden in their body language and conversations. _Good_. More often than not, unsatisfied colleagues led to bad business.

     Soon, he was left alone in the board room, logging out of the computer and tidying his things. The office building was hushed as the staff gradually left for lunch. Masato smiled. It was rare moments like this that he cherished, enjoying the gentle hum of the air conditioner and the warm satisfaction that came from hard work. A moment of serenity. The midday sun glowed white on the carpet, and a sad smile appeared on his face. Masato absent-mindedly raised a hand to his lips. _The colour reminded me of Camus, didn’t it?_ Two days had passed since they had met, and his hopes of Camus taking him seriously and calling back were fading fast. Yet, the littlest things would remind him; the white burn of sunlight, the pale blue sky, the chill of the wind. Embarrassingly enough, he’d imagined the pair of them in a sonnet he was studying last night and longed for the taste of Camus’ lips on his. _Get a grip, dammit…_

     Masato walked down the empty corridor to his office, and locked the door behind him, not wanting to be disturbed while he ate his lunch, especially by thoughts of Camus. A bento box he’d made that morning was waiting for him, including some premium-grade salmon; nothing would disturb him from it today. Masato sat in his office chair, bento box in hand, and looked out over the Tokyo skyline. The shimmering city was as impressive as always, the perfect view for lunch. He picked up a perfectly formed salmon nigiri and raised it to his mouth-

     His phone buzzed loudly on his desk. A phone call. Masato sighed. He wanted desperately to ignore it, but if it was a potential client, he would have no choice in answering. Tentatively, he reached over and picked it up from the desk, praying there would be a caller I.D.

     It was an unknown number.

     Groaning, he put down his bento and answered. “Hijirikawa.”

     “Hijirikawa?” the called responded.

     “Please identify yourself.” Masato furrowed his eyebrows. 

     “I… This is Camus.”

     Masato whitened. _He actually called?!_

     “You didn’t expect me to call, did you? Neither did I, honestly.”

     “…I don’t know what to say.”

     “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

     “No!” Masato panicked. “I mean… you’re not wasting my time at all.”

     There was a pause on the other end. “You didn’t leave your number as a joke?”

     “… no, not in the slightest.”

     “I’m glad.”

     A moment of silent eternity passed between the two of them. Masato’s heart was racing, threatening to burst through his ribcage.

     “I’m sorry if this is weird,” Masato eventually spoke. “This isn’t something I normally do.”

     Camus chuckled into the phone. “I can tell. This is new for me as well. I don’t make a habit of calling strangers who write their number on my back.”

     Masato laughed. “It does sound strange when you put it that way. But why did you call?”

     “Your poem.”

     “Truly?”

     “Yes. I’d like to meet with you again to talk about it. You seem like a kindred spirit.”

     “… I’d like that. There’s a nice coffee place not far from the gallery, Espresso 72?”

     “A good choice. Are you free this afternoon around four?”

     “Let me check my planner.” Masato flicked through his scheduled list of appointments. A light day, finishing by three. “Yes, four is good.”

     “Then I look forward to seeing you there.” There was a soft beep and the call ended.

     Immediately, Masato dropped his phone and collapsed back into his chair, drained of all energy. He shook his head. _He actually called…_ A mixture fear and excitement knotted itself in his gut. It had been too long between dates. Was what he was wearing appropriate for coffee? Was he overdressed? What if he said something stupid or, worse, came across as a psychotic stalker? He moaned, and attempted to supress the butterflies in his stomach with his lunch, staring vaguely out of his window.

 

*

 

     Camus waited patiently, twirling a spoon through the jar of sugar in front of him. In his nervousness, he’d arrived at the café fifteen minutes early, setting himself down in the back corner at a table for two. He caught himself glancing at his watch at least twice a minute and tapping a finger on his leg. _How am I this unravelled by a stranger? Am I crossing a line being here?_ Closing his eyes he took a few deep breaths to calm himself. It didn’t help much.

     As his watch ticked over to 4 o’ clock, the door of the café opened. Masato had arrived, immediately noticing Camus in the back corner. After all, he was rather noticeable in his white suit. Camus stood as he approached. The pair stood facing each other across the table for a moment, the café seemingly hushed. Without a word, they gave small bow of greeting and took their seats. The hush remained.

     “It’s an honour to meet you again, Camus.”

     “Likewise, Hijirikawa.”

     “Please, just Masato.”

     “Of course.” 

     “Are you often around this area?”

     “Work is close, but really, I like the classic art gallery.”

     “I see.”

     A pause.

     “Do you live nearby?”

     “Yes, actually. A few blocks north of here. I often get work in this area.”

     “Mm.”

     More silence.

_This is not working…_ Masato scanned his brain for something to say, but came up blank.

     Camus broke the silence. “My apologies, I don’t know what to say. I… I’m normally better at conversation.”

     “Don’t be sorry, I don’t know what to say either. It feels like… like my brain has packed up and gone on vacation.”

     Camus smirked, staring at the face in front of him. A slight tinge of pink was dusted on Masato’s cheeks, and his blue eyes were dilated in the dim light of the café. He wanted nothing more than to bridge the space between them, to drown in those deep eyes, but not just yet. He wanted to know more about who Masato really was first.

     A waiter stepped forward to take their orders, greeting Masato personally. “My usual, please.”

     Camus cocked an eyebrow, before returning to the menu. “A peppermint tea for me, please.”

     “Your drinks will be ready shortly.” The waiter bowed and left.

     Camus turned his attention back to Masato. “Your usual?”

     Masato shrugged, blushing slightly. “I come here regularly.”

     “I think there’s more to it than that,” Camus smiled. “The cut of your suit alone makes that clear. You’re the CEO of Hijirikawa Enterprises, aren’t you?”

     “You’ve done your research,” Masato said curtly.

     Camus could see pangs of anger in his eyes. Or was it sadness?

     Masato sighed. “Sorry, my family reputation goes ahead of me more often than not. It’d be nice to be anonymous once in a while.”

     “I understand.”

     Masato looked up, locking eyes with Camus. Something flashed through his eyes, glimmering beneath that icy veneer.

     “I dropped my surname years ago,” Camus continued. “I wanted my own future, not what people thought I wanted simply because of who my parents are.”

     Masato opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the waiter, who returned with their orders. Two steaming teapots were placed in front of the pair, with a plate of chinsuko to share. “Enjoy.”

     “Thank you kindly.” Masato smiled at the waiter, who bowed and continued his rounds.

     The pair poured their tea in silence, glancing furtively at each other.

     “You prefer green tea?” Camus inquired. 

     “Mm.” Masato paused. “Your preference?”

     “Earl Grey or English Breakfast, but sometimes herbal.”

     “When you’re trying to relax?”

     Camus paused mid-pour. “Am I that transparent?” he asked jokingly.

     “Only when the feeling’s mutual.” Masato smirked.

     Camus let out what sounded like a laugh, more of a sharp breath than anything else. For some reason, Masato’s heart sparked, and he decided that he definitely wanted to hear that sound again.

     The pair talked about work, about art, about poetry, and the hours slipped by. Before they knew, the sun was beginning to set. The café was readying to close, so they finished the last dregs of tea, thanked the staff, and began to walk the streets. The setting sun cast long, lazy shadows on the asphalt. The warm heat of the day was relieved by a gentle breeze, but the flush in Masato’s face had not dissipated. He’d never met anyone who’d made him feel this way before. It was like being a schoolchild again.

     Camus looked at his watch. “I should be getting back, I have an early start tomorrow.”

     “Of course. You said you weren’t far, but… may I accompany you?”

     “I’d like that.”

     A warm silence lingered between the pair as they journeyed to Camus’ apartment. Masato felt as though his stomach would burst. Camus periodically had to concentrate and steady his hands. But despite their nervousness, they felt comfortable in each other’s company, as though fate had already cast the die.

     When they arrived at Camus’ place, he simply held open the door for Masato. Not a word needed to be said.

     Camus clicked the door shut behind them. Looking around, Masato turned back to compliment him on his apartment. Camus didn’t give him a chance. His silken hand brushed across Masato’s cheek, stopping any trace of speech, his blue hair falling delicately across his knuckles. Camus smiled as he leaned his face close to Masato, savouring the shaky breaths that were breathed over his lips. Their noses lightly touched, and they stayed suspended in that moment for what felt like forever. The lines of reality began to blur between them, fading in the frenetic heartbeats they were sharing.

     Slowly, Masato bridged the gap between them. His lips grazed across the delicate rosebud lips he’d desired for days. They were even softer than he’d imagined. Cool peppermint, fragrant tea, sugared biscuits; his mind overflowed with the gentle senses they shared. But when Camus pushed back, pressing his lips more fervently to his, he sparked to life.

     Fumbling through kisses, Masato abandoned his briefcase in the hall, allowing himself to be led lips first towards the bedroom. Buttons were scrabbled open, jackets and linen shirts discarded on the floor. Camus’ fingertips roamed across Masato’s chest, tracing along his abdomen and then up along his spine, holding back a moan as Masato shivered beneath his touch. Spurred on, Masato longed to feel Camus against him, and undid the waistband of Camus’ trousers. He couldn’t help but admire the physique that stood in front of him.

     “You’re… stunning…” he gasped into Camus’ mouth. He traced a finger along the bulge that strained against Camus’ briefs, delighted at how damp it already was. Camus’ face reddened, his mouth open in a silent groan, before leaning forward and brushing his lips against Masato’s ear.

     “I can’t let you have all the fun now, can I?” he breathed, catching Masato when his knees buckled. Guiding him backwards, he lay Masato on the bed and immediately began to undo his trousers. Agonisingly slowly, he undid the clasp, drawing down the fly centimetre by centimetre, until Masato was biting his knuckles in torture.

     “Please…” Masato begged.

     “As you wish,” Camus replied, “but you really should watch this.” Removing Masato’s trousers and underwear, they locked eyes and Camus slowly took Masato’s erection into his mouth. The warm softness of Camus’ lips around his cock and his icy gaze brimming with a fiery hunger was almost too much for him. An embarrassingly loud moan passed between his lips. Camus pinned his hips onto the bed as he began to trace his tongue along the underside of Masato’s erection. Masato’s mind was consumed, driven wild by Camus’ soft, twisting tongue. His hips lifted and his head fell backwards onto the mattress. “More…” he eventually breathed.

     Camus hummed in agreement, sending a gentle buzz along Masato’s cock. With a final stroke of his tongue, Camus stood, and moved to remove his briefs. He could feel Masato’s gaze as he retrieved the lube and a condom from his bedside drawer. “Is this your first?” He asked. “I don’t want to rush you.”

     Masato shook his head, getting up off the bed and walking towards Camus. He leaned in close, touching his lips to Camus’ neck. “No, and I’m ready when you are,” he whispered. “In fact,” he bit softly on his earlobe, “I want you to fuck me senseless.”

     His words elicited more than a groan from Camus. Camus thrust his lips against Masato’s, desperately seeking friction against his throbbing cock. He gave Masato’s ass a sharp pinch, smiling at the yelp it caused, and taking advantage of Masato’s surprise, he deftly pushed him onto his back on the bed. Before Masato could even react, Camus pinned his arms to the bed with one hand. They locked eyes, challenging each other for more, so Camus uncapped the lube with his free hand and coated a finger. He watched carefully, savouring Masato’s beautiful expression, his flushed face contorting with discomfort and delight. Masato nodded, ready for another. He let out a gasp as Camus obeyed. Camus moved deeper and the gasp became a whimper.

     Camus leant over, nibbling on Masato’s neck. “My god, you’re delectable.”

     Masato melted into his kisses. “Camus… more…”

     “Greedy too.” Camus leered. “Anything you desire.”

     “Hypocrite... I can feel how much you need it too.” He moved his leg, rubbing his thigh between Camus’ legs and smirking as Camus’ erection twitched against it.

     Camus gradually pulled his fingers out of Masato, who whimpered at the loss. Still using one hand to hold Masato to the bed, he rolled the condom on with his free hand and added some extra lubrication. Slowly, he moved inside, inch by inch, his hips trembling from the sheer force of restraining himself. Masato bit down on his lip, eyes closed.

     “Masato,” Camus spoke. “Open your eyes.”

     Masato did as he was told, and his eyelids fluttered open to see Camus’s arctic eyes looking deep into his. Camus traced a finger along his lips and said “Please, don’t hold back. I want to hear you.”

     With that, Camus thrust deep into Masato. Masato moaned at the sudden movement, grabbing fistfuls of the bedding beneath him. Camus was panting, holding himself in place, trembling with desire. He could feel Masato so sweetly tight around him. Masato relaxed his grip on the sheets, signalling for Camus that he could _finally_ move. With beautiful relief, Camus thrust himself in and out of Masato, a glistening sweat forming on his brow. Masato let out a gloriously obscene noise, and Camus couldn’t help but moan in response.

     “Ma…sato…” Camus groaned. “Fuck!” He released Masato’s wrists, and grabbed Masato’s hip with one hand, while the other tenderly wrapped around the shaft of Masato’s cock. Camus thrust firmly. Masato’s hips bucked upwards into Camus’ hand, and the sensation left him gasping. Camus moaned as he felt Masato tighten around him. He was desperate to see Masato unravel in front of him, to make him feel as enraptured as he already was. When Masato opened his immense blue eyes, Camus suddenly found himself drowning, his lungs burning for air and his mind consumed in sapphire lust.

     Camus thrust faster, and Masato gasped. An icy shock swiftly pierced him through. Pangs of ice began to race through his veins, swelling and expanding, and a cold sweat broke out on his skin. “Th-there… Ca…mus…” he mewled. With a loud moan, his chest heaved and his hips jerked.

     Already immersed, Masato’s movements sent Camus’ mind spinning. He felt the tension pool in his abdomen, and unable to hold on any longer, he gave his all. “Ma…sa…to…”

     Masato was nearing his limit too. The warm pulse of Camus inside of him, his hot hand around his throbbing erection, the sound of his pleading voice… in an icy flash, everything turned white.

 

*

 

     When Masato came to, the first thing he noticed was the smell of tea. The floral aroma drifted through the room, which upon notice, he didn’t recognise. Or did he? Memories began to resurface; of peppermint tea, of silken white skin, of an icy fire… _A dream?_ Masato moved to see what time it was, but as he did, a soreness throbbed in his wrists, his abdominals, and his thighs, not to mention…

     Camus appeared in the doorway. He paused, tea in hand, gazing at the man lying in his bed. His blue hair fell across his face and his pale skin could have been chiselled out of marble. _How lucky I am…_ “I made you some tea,” he said, alerting Masato to his presence.

     “Camus…” Masato whispered.

     With a smile, Camus walked over, placing the tea cups on the bedside table, and sat at the edge of the bed. “You passed out pretty soon after we finished,” he smiled. “I take it that-”

     Masato placed a finger on Camus’ lips. They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, and Masato lifted his finger and placed his lips in a delicate kiss over Camus’ mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone, thanks for reading! Have to say, this wasn't a pairing I wouldn't have thought would work so well. I promise I am still working on my goliath of a fic "Wicked Game" and updates will happen again soonish.


End file.
